


A Sure Thing

by lightgetsin



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, porn with shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-16
Updated: 2009-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightgetsin/pseuds/lightgetsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay," Peter says, and there's a rasp in his voice. "Repeat after me: theft is <i>not</i> foreplay."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sure Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Originally intended as a kinkmeme response, but then it had an extra few thousand words and it didn't much fit the prompt anymore. Thanks to [](http://treewishes.livejournal.com/profile)[**treewishes**](http://treewishes.livejournal.com/) and [](http://cmshaw.livejournal.com/profile)[**cmshaw**](http://cmshaw.livejournal.com/) for beta.

The sex is really good. Peter is predictably attentive and considerate and gruffly sweet. And it's good not just in itself, but also in that way that Neal can tell it's only going to get better in time.

And that's the other thing. Peter is all careful hands and warm looks, and sometimes when they're in bed and Peter's inside him, moving in that slow, deliberate way, he looks right into Neal's eyes and breathes in like there's something he wants to say. Neal loves this part, right up to the first time someone says _I love you_. It always makes him giddy and wild, like the rush of a perfect con, to get that from someone. And this time, when it comes, yeah, it's going to be even better.

But the thing is. The thing is, Neal is getting laid as often as they can manage around work and this complicated friendship-respect-possessiveness dance going on with Elizabeth. But he's still about to crawl out of his skin, because Peter is considerate and attentive, and it's good, but Neal really, really needs to get fucked.

Fucked hard, until he's sweating and shaking. From behind, yeah, on his hands and knees. That would do it. He wants Peter to fuck him until he can't hold himself up anymore, he wants to drop his face into the sheets and howl for it, he wants Peter to grab his hips and just fuck him and _fuck_ him. And maybe Peter can talk to him, just for that little extra, ask him if he likes taking it like this, tell him to tighten up on his dick, that's right, just like that.

It's never been like that with them, but Neal just _knows_ that Peter's got it in him, the way he always knows what a mark really wants most in the world after a five minute conversation. Peter calls him _baby_ in bed sometimes, in this voice that lights Neal up, every time; what would it take to get Peter to call him _slut_?

So he borrows one of Lord Byron's handwritten letters from the Met. They've been called in to consult on security measures for the newest installation of culturally appropriated African artifacts, and Peter makes the requisite mix of threats to "behave yourself" and amused comments on the irony. He's keeping a pretty close eye on Neal, but that's all for the good. The whole game takes less than seven minutes – lost watch, illicit smoke break with two security guards, a bit of jiggery pokery with the motion sensors in document storage down the hall, and he has the letter nestled safe beneath his undershirt, right against his skin. Easy peasy.

He slips back to the group unnoticed except for Peter, who stares long and hard. Neal makes eye contact, winks, and tells the curator there may be some flaws in the security system.

He has about a day before the staff goes to assemble that part of the exhibit, which is doable, but a nice challenge. Neal begs off dinner with the suspicious boyfriend and the suspicious boyfriend's wife, which only makes Peter's frown crank up another notch.

No rest for the wicked, and who needs it anyway? It takes him a little under nine hours to get the copy right. The handwriting isn't any trouble after a few practice runs – it's kind of like Sylvia Plath's, only a bit trickier on the downstrokes. Normally there would be a lot more adrenaline involved since he'd have one or maybe two sheets of properly aged paper to work with. But this time he's using a pack of cosmetically aged commercial parchment, expensive but obvious to the trained eye, so there's no real danger if he flubs a stroke. It makes him die a little inside, but it has to be done. The biggest problem is actually getting the consistency of the ink right, but eventually he gets there, and maybe it's not his best work, but it's not too shabby either.

Peter shows up fifteen minutes early the next morning, missing Mozzie by less than ninety seconds. Neal pours him coffee and kisses him good morning. Peter hauls him in close and kisses back, one hand a bit too tight at the nape of Neal's neck and the other circling his wrist.

"You look tired," Peter says, all concern.

Neal shrugs. "Couldn't sleep," he says lightly.

"You should have called me," Peter says, low-voiced and serious.

"Maybe I will next time," Neal says, and smiles all sweet. Like you do when your lover is expressing his concern over your beauty sleep.

"Let's hope you do," Peter says evenly, and looks down, hard-eyed, to Neal's hand splayed over his terrible tie and the traces of ink embedded in his cuticles.

It's a boring day. Some kid in Queens is trying to run an internet pyramid scheme with a simulated stock market whose returns are randomly generated except one "guaranteed moneymaker" chosen each day. Amateur.

Peter is cranky. Neal waits until he's in with Hughes, then logs onto his computer – password the same as last Friday, nice – and changes his desktop background to a close-up digital photo of a map of Vinland. He briefly considers putting together a slide show of Neal Caffrey's greatest hits – the bonds, the currency, the medieval manuscript he knows Peter knows was his, plus a few red herrings just to make him wonder – but then he decides to keep that in reserve for another rainy day.

He arranges himself in his own chair again to wait for Peter, with a few printouts from the pyramid scheme website to read. He can hear Peter talking to Jones as he comes down the hall, then his cell phone trilling. Thirty seconds later, Peter materializes in prime looming position over Neal's shoulder.

"The Met just called," he says.

"Oh?" Neal says, looking up. "Did they move the next meeting?"

"No," Peter snaps. "They're missing an exhibit."

"Oh," Neal says, widening his eyes. "Are we going to go take a look?"

"Oh yeah," Peter says, "we're going to go take a look." He doesn't move though, just stands there and stares.

Neal gets rid of the printouts, then stares back. "You know, Peter, you really shouldn't clench your jaw like that. You're going to give yourself a headache."

Peter exhales through his nose. "Car," he says, and strides out.

Neal saunters after, pausing just long enough to text Mozzie.

Peter doesn't say anything in the car, and Neal leaves him to stew. The museum is in a quiet uproar when they arrive, and they're quickly shunted through the public areas and down to onsite storage in the basement. The elevator doors are just opening when Neal's phone buzzes once in his pocket. He doesn't have to look to know it's Mozz.

"We're checking to see if anything else is missing," the curator says, ushering them into document storage.

"Good thought, but too many people," Peter says, looking around at the crowd. "If it's an inside job, this is exactly the sort of chaos the perp would need to get out, or get something else. Where was the letter taken from?"

"Right here," the curator says, ushering them over to one of the units with temperature and humidity controls. "It was here yesterday morning when we opened the shipment, but we didn't check again until half an hour ago. My assistant came down to start arranging the exhibit and she opened it up and the letter was—" She opens the case and stops short.

". . . right here all along?" Neal suggests helpfully into the silence.

"No, but," the curator says, staring in confusion at the letter, tucked safely inside its protective sleeve. "But I _saw_ . . . it was _empty_ . . ."

That vein in Peter's temple is popping out again. "Oh-kay," he says in his _I am being calm_ voice. "Let's clear the area, first of all. Then we can take a full inventory." He cuts his eyes at Neal. "And then we will authenticate this letter," he says grimly.

All of that takes over three hours. Peter keeps Neal within arm's reach the entire time, even when he's hovering over the poor document authenticator and demanding to know if he's _sure_ he's sure.

"As positive as I can be at an initial examination," the guy says, throwing up his hands. "It looks perfect, right down to the wear in the lower right corner."

"It would take impressive skill to fake that feathering on the downstrokes," Neal says helpfully.

"Uh-huh," Peter says, looking between them. "Well, you call me if you see anything suspicious. Anything at all, you hear me?"

The curator ushers them out, all aflutter with puzzled relief and praise for Peter's devotion to duty. Peter nods and smiles and shakes hands and says he's glad it's nothing serious after all.

And then they're out on the street again in the early winter night. Peter stops at the first corner on the way to the parking garage and looks at Neal under the street lights. "We're having dinner," he says, clipped. "At your place."

Neal blinks. "Are we?" he says. "Isn't Elizabeth going to be mad if you skip out on her banquet?"

Peter's face does something complicated and hilarious that Neal really wishes he had on video. But then Peter actually seems to think about it, weighing it up, and that just isn't part of the game, thank you.

"Hey," Neal says. "Peter. Seriously. Go. Don't stand up your wife."

Peter wants to frisk him, right here, Neal can tell. But he's not going to because he has a date with Elizabeth. And also because he wants to know what Neal's going to do next.

Peter nods, and some of the tension eases from around his mouth. "Come on," he says. "I need to change after I drop you off."

Mozzie isn't there when Neal gets home, but he's left all the supplies out and waiting. Neal sits down at the table and looks it over. Cherry wood frame, nice, with the glass pre-cut so all he has to do is matte it.

He dials Mozz one-handed as he starts to arrange things.

"Hey," Mozzie says with traffic sounds in the background. "Everything go okay?"

"Perfect," Neal says. "Though I did have one bad second when the authenticator made this face and I thought you might have put back the wrong document again."

"_Once_," Mozzie says, outraged. "Once, nine fucking years ago, but can you ever let it go?"

"No, I really can't," Neal says.

"It could have happened to anybody! And you should take it as a compliment that I _really_ couldn't tell the difference."

"Three months of work," Neal says by wrote. "All nearly ruined because you can't tell the difference between your right and left pockets, forget my documents."

"Oh, please," Mozz says. "You bitched and moaned, but the only thing better than stealing it once for you was stealing it twice."

Neal grins, reminiscent. "Yeah, that was pretty good," he admits. "Sometimes I am so slick, I amaze myself."

"What the fuck ever," Mozzie says. "You going to tell me what today was about?"

Neal grins to himself. "Believe me when I tell you there are some things you'd rather not know."

"I do believe it," Mozzie says promptly. "Like what's really in those H1N1 vaccines we're all supposed to get, you ever wondered about that?"

"No," Neal says, "and don't tell me, I've got to go finish this up. And Mozz? Thanks."

"Adding it to the ledger," Mozzie says cheerfully, and hangs up.

Neal does the matting and the framing, then curls up in the corner of the couch for a catnap while the glue sets. All-nighters aren't quite as easy as they used to be a decade ago.

He wakes up again after eleven, which is just about when June usually goes for her nightcap. Perfect.

He's halfway down the stairs when he hears voices from the living room. It's one of those moments when Neal is convinced someone up there loves him, or at least finds him highly entertaining. He knew Peter would probably come back tonight when he could, but this timing could not be more beautiful if he'd stage managed it himself.

"Good evening," he says, coming in on quiet socked feet. "Peter, what a pleasant surprise. How was Elizabeth's event?"

"Long," Peter says. "I want to talk to you."

"Sure, sure," Neal says. "Just a sec. June, I have something for you."

"Oh?" she says, setting down her glass. Then, "oh!" as he dramatically presents the framed letter. "Darling!" She takes it in reverent hands, eyes sparkling.

Peter leans over, takes one peek, and shoots Neal a look of sheer affronted disbelief. "Neal," he says, quiet and furious. "If you think I will just sit back and—"

"In the library, I was thinking," Neal says, cutting quickly across him. "But I can reframe it in a lighter wood if you'd rather have it in here."

"No, no, it's perfect." June gifts him with a brilliant smile. "Thank you, darling, you really shouldn't have."

"No he shouldn't," Peter says. He touches the corner of the frame and tilts it into the light for another look. "Neal, I don't know what—" then he stops, blinks, and stares.

"It's not the original, of course," Neal says blandly.

"Of course," June says. "But I love it. Darling, thank you so much." She whisks it away from Peter, and comes to kiss Neal's cheek and squeeze his hand. "We can find the perfect spot in the morning, when we have the sunlight." She beams at him, and it's nearly as good as walking out of the museum with the letter light inside his shirt and Peter right behind him, watching and suspicious because he always knows.

"Thank you, again," June says. "Goodnight, boys."

She sails out, humming. Neal's eyes meet Peter's across the cavernous living room. "Coming upstairs?" Neal asks lightly.

Peter follows him in silence and closes the door with great care.

"All right," he says. "Explain this to me."

Neal crosses to the table and starts cleaning up his supplies. "Explain what?"

"Neal."

Neal smoothes down his hair. "It was a joke of theirs," he says. "June and her husband's. Lord Byron. She has a first edition of his collected letters, and Byron used to leave her bookmarks when he wanted to say something in particular. Sweet, don't you think?"

"Oh yeah, adorable," Peter agrees. "So you thought, what, you'd just help yourself to the primary source?"

Here's the part where Neal is supposed to say something like, _I have no idea what you're talking about_, or _Peter, you have a fascinating imagination_. Instead he looks Peter in the eye and grins and says, "Pretty slick, wasn't it?"

Peter comes right across the room at him, stopping just a foot away. "I don't believe this," he says.

"Sure you do." Neal beams at him. "And you love it."

"Oh, yeah," Peter says. "I think it's fantastic when you risk everything for some idiotic stunt."

"Okay, that too," Neal agrees, in fairness. "But mostly it just turns you on." And he goes down on his knees and rubs his cheek into the bulge in Peter's slacks.

"I—" Peter says, and his breath hitches. "Damn it, Neal . . ."

"Mmm." Neal mouths him, already so hot for it he doesn't care he's getting cheap department store cotton germs. He goes for Peter's belt, and Peter lets him. Good sign. Peter's cock springs out and the tip – already wet, yeah, he likes it – comes to rest on Neal's cheek. He looks up, makes eye contact, lets Peter watch him getting his mouth wet.

He goes down on Peter nice and slow. Peter's already making those soft, pained noises and blurting little salty bursts at the back of Neal's mouth. Neal swallows, swallows again, breathes through his nose. He's almost got it, just needs the angle a little deeper . . .

And then Peter says "oh my God," pulls his dick out of Neal's mouth and rocks back.

"Hey, I wasn't done," Neal says, breathless.

"You," Peter says, and belatedly Neal realizes this is the face Peter has when he's two mental leaps behind a suspect and closing fast. "You did this entire thing just to get to me."

"And it worked," Neal says, deciding instantaneously not to go with coy in this particular instance. "And also to make June happy. I can multi-task."

Peter reaches out and grabs him by the hair. "You did this _entire thing_ to get to me."

Neal's pretty sure his eyes have just dilated black. His voice is hoarse as he leans into Peter's hold. "Ooh, and now it's _really_ working."

Peter's hand tightens and he stares down at Neal for a long sprint of seconds. He's flushed, breathing fast. Neal looks back, and right then he doesn't have to think about what his face should be showing and not showing, because he wants Peter to know exactly what he's imagining.

"You," Peter says tensely. Then, "Take off your clothes," and he lets go of Neal's hair. Neal sways on his knees, then scrambles up.

"Only had to ask," he says brightly.

Peter's look is measuring. "I'm getting that, yeah," he says, and drops his jacket on the floor. Neal takes more care with his clothes, because they deserve respect and because it'll rub Peter exactly the wrong way.

He's right. He turns away from the closet and Peter is right there, hands closing hard around his waist. They go for a kiss at the same moment; their teeth bump, and then Peter bites him, kisses him roughly.

"Figured you out, Caffrey," he says. "Get on the bed."

Neal is going to ask how Peter wants him, but he doesn't have to because Peter stays right on him across the room, and follows him down with all his weight. They roll across the wide bed, groping and grappling.

"Condom?" Peter demands, then huffs out a laugh when Neal produces one and the lube from under the pillows. They're not slowing down, either of them. They're both sweating, hands sliding everywhere, and there's no question how this is going to go. Peter leaves a set of fingertip bruises in Neal's thigh when he drags him down the bed to make room. Neal lets out an involuntary sound at the manhandling and spreads his legs. Peter is right there with brusque, slicked fingers, and the way he's so unapologetic about how he just can't wait to fuck him makes Neal go a little insane.

"Okay?" Peter asks, after a minute of their rushed breathing, his eyes focused down on his fingers.

"Yes," Neal says, nearly stuttering. "Come on, I can take it."

Peter goes for it with one hard push, and then they're fucking just like that, none of the niceties, and it's _perfect_. Peter gets his knees under him and wraps his hands around Neal's thighs, pressing them up and back and snarling out a wild sound between his teeth.

"Like this?" he asks between breaths. "This what you wanted?"

"Yes," Neal says, voice hitching. "Come on, come on –" He twists under Peter, their skin slides, and Peter says something fervent and profane as he gets that little bit deeper.

"Fuck fuck _fuck_," he adds, and gets a hand down under Neal to hoist his hips up again. And oh God, he drops Neal's thigh and slides his other hand down to touch the slick-swollen place where they're joined. "I bet you can take more," he says, watching Neal's face. "I bet you _want_ more."

Neal nods, breath gone, and Peter slides a finger in alongside his cock, no hesitation. It hurts, and it's so good it makes lights go off in front of Neal's eyes.

"More?" Peter asks, panting but inexorable. "That enough for you, or you need another?"

"One more," Neal says. "Just – yeah, just like that."

"You like that?" Peter asks, pushing his two fingers in and holding them there and fucking him. "Sure you do," he adds, mouth twisting as he gives Neal's taunt right back. "You love it."

Neal doesn't answer that; he doesn't have to, really. Their eyes have caught and held, and for some immeasurable time that's all it is, Peter's eyes boring into his and the slap of their skin as Peter gives it to him and gives it to him.

"Can you?" Peter says at last. "Like this, can you--?"

"Maybe," Neal says raggedly. "Why don't you make me."

"Right, of course that's how it is," Peter says. His fingers slide out and he grabs Neal by the hips and pushes him and Neal arches his back, and fuck, but he's almost there, _almost_ . . .

Peter watches him. Neal feels his face twisting up as he's reaching for it, and just not quite . . .

And then Peter looks him in the eye and slaps him hard, high up on the back of his thigh, and Neal yelps and comes, game over. It's apocalyptically good, the best he's had in, God, years.

When he comes back from the outer planetary orbits, Peter is still watching him, except now he's smirking. And he's still hard.

"Oh," Neal says, a little shiver of alarm firing the over stimulated nerves low in his belly. "Peter . . ."

"You can take it," Peter says, and pushes deep into him once, and then again, and again. It's good in that way that almost hurts, and Neal wants it to be over while he's ahead, and wants to spread his legs wider and beg Peter not to stop. "Oh God," Peter says. "Baby, that's so good." And he comes so hard Neal distantly worries about the integrity of the condom.

They don't talk for a while after. It's warm in this part of the house, and it's comfortable to lie naked together on top of the covers, Peter's arm thrown across him while they catch their breath.

Peter's the first to speak. He pushes himself up onto an elbow – it looks like a lot of work – and stares down at Neal. "Okay," he says, and there's a rasp in his voice. "Repeat after me: theft is _not_ foreplay."

"Sure, Peter. Whatever you say, Peter."

Peter huffs and glares, and slowly melts back onto the mattress. "Damn it," he says contemplatively. "Next time just ask, will you?"

Neal beams at the ceiling. "I thought I did."


End file.
